Look at you

Had you any inkling, of how original you were

How your curvy tresses, unkempt, were the cascades of Eden

And how you uttered words of supposed cacophony that launched ships

Did you know

That it did not matter how they looked at you

But it does matter how you see yourself

Look at you, rising from the wreckage, embracing storms…

Look at your threshold

At the Aurora you became, and the Sun in his chariot, seeking your aproval…

to ascend.

Just –

Look at you…


It is true that,

She is her own messiah….

That she has purged her own self,

Of plagues and despair

That threatend to take her breath away…..


It is true that,

She is her own divinity.

That she has uplifted her soul

When all belief and love

Was challenged and abused every day…..


It is true that

She is her own messiah,

And has taken the highest wave….

That most men were scared

To ride upon lest they should sway…..


It is true that

She is her own Sun,

Who has, with deliberate ease,

Hovered  through the darkest dungeon,

Dazzling it with a blinding ray…….


It is true that

She is her own reason,

To smile, love and be merry,

And has learnt it hard…..

That nothing can forever stay…..



From what we see…

Some of the things
we see,
are not what
they are meant to be…

The drooping bough
laden with ice,
maybe warm inside.

Warmer than hearts,
seemingly welcoming otherwise…

If ever you are,
to stop and see-
the begging bowls…
from hungry eyes,
the wealth in them,
could take you
by surprise.


what took hours for me to understand

was understood by else

in just a little time

if the world could see

what I saw with closed eyes

the volcanoes would not have thundered

and all the winds

could have rested awhile…


She has flown again,

Without fluttering.”

A 6 word story prompt. The word Prompt is “Silent”. It can be followed here.

What matters more?

To participate or to be the witness
To see the change or be the change
To envision the spectrum or to let it be white

To let the clouds rain or to wait for thunder
To paint some shreds or to color the whole canvas
To devour all the fragrance or to inhale just what feels right

To accept the reality or meander among dreamy landscape

To know when to stop or to keep moving with panache

To be content with whatever you have or to hanker after what seems alluring

What matters more…

To be as you are

Or to emulate

A seemingly brighter star.

Whose Fault is it Anyway?

Often, as today it is, the mind stands in conflict with the heart. Today is a pleasant day, looks good ahead too.

Human reach to its impermeable suburbs is profound. We think we know it all and will never ever succumb to situations which shake our faith in our powers. Yet we give in. We give in to fears, trepidation, unseen dangers, predicted horrendous outcomes and an unfathomable afterlife.

In all this, wrong decisions are taken, wrong paths are chosen, wrong words are said and sometimes wrong tears are wiped! Why do I say that?

Well, that is what I am to write about.

Incorrect direction of sympathy towards people who did not need them in the first place. You needed it badly, but in giving it to someone else, you felt satiated, sacrificial and weirdly complete.

Then, if insensitivity and narcissism tore you within….

Whose fault was it anyway?

Does it even matter then, that you gave it your all?

Does it matter at all that you were emptied of your core?

Does it even matter that you dissolved like salt?

Does it even matter that your world was actually in their globes?

Does it then matter that you existed like a speck in their sky?

What does matter though is the emptiness that is purely yours….and not theirs to share.

What matters now is to stop being the empath you were.

What matters is not the fact that you were at fault.

What matters…

Is, that it was nobody’s fault.

What matters…

Is that you, your sky, your earth

Is still yours to claim.

It does not matter if they left or if you pushed them away…

But it definitely does matter that your halo –


Is purely yours TODAY


If I were to tell you

That wings are for free

That skies won’t thunder

And the Sun will not blind your eye

And that a soft breeze is going to pamper

Your heart and your soul

Will you then

Take the flight

And venture against


And all that held you back.

Tell me if wings were free

Would you then take the flight

Would you rise

Would you soar…

All gratitude to Eugenia’s weekly word Prompt Soar.

Why Literature is so Personal?

Yesterday I heard a few complaints, about a student who does not respond in Online Classes. He simply ignores all modes of addressing by the teachers, never speaks out at all.

However, during my sessions, strangely, he is the one who constantly talks! I had no idea the child is so reticent otherwise. It was unbelievable.

What then, makes him speak in one class and hold back in the other.

Interest in the subject?

Maybe, but I know he is not literature-wise; I conduct their Language and Literature Classes. What is it then?

The point is, Literature is more personal. The poet or the writer is someone who you relate with. The most honest writings with far reaching effects are ones that are lucid and/ or autobiographical. The other day we talked about “Losses”. We were reading “The Ball Poem”. I had prepared a list of questions before even starting the session. Sort of a pre reading task. It preps you for what is coming ahead. And it mostly works.

These were my questions:

1. When was the first time you cried over the loss of something precious?

2. Were you offered any consolation? Did that help?

3. Now if you see a kid in trouble, crying over the loss of some important possession, do you reach out and console?

4. How does the experience of losing anything change a person?

And here is the poem that was to be studied…

The Ball Poem


What is the boy now, who has lost his ball.
What, what is he to do? I saw it go
Merrily bouncing, down the street, and then
Merrily over—there it is in the water!
No use to say ‘O there are other balls’:
An ultimate shaking grief fixes the boy
As he stands rigid, trembling, staring down
All his young days into the harbour where
His ball went. I would not intrude on him,
A dime, another ball, is worthless. Now
He senses first responsibility
In a world of possessions. People will take balls,
Balls will be lost always, little boy,
And no one buys a ball back. Money is external.
He is learning, well behind his desperate eyes,
The epistemology of loss, how to stand up
Knowing what every man must one day know
And most know many days, how to stand up
And gradually light returns to the street,
A whistle blows, the ball is out of sight.
Soon part of me will explore the deep and dark
Floor of the harbour . . I am everywhere,
I suffer and move, my mind and my heart move
With all that move me, under the water
Or whistling, I am not a little boy.

A simple yet profound insight on how coping with losses is necessary. Students talked about their experiences…like losing an ipad! A teddy bear! A bicycle!… These might seem superficial, but they meant the world at some stage.

I’m glad I don’t teach Science or Geography!!😃

Well, the questions above are for all of us to ponder.

How do losses change us?

Magnanimously…I would say.

P.S. – What answers would you give to these questions??

What do you hold within

Today I spoke to a student I have been mentoring over the past few days. He is, well, he is special if you understand. He, he is, dyslexic, has OCD, with slow grasping power and needs special attention. We have these students in our school. They have easier curriculum and subjects. So did he. But the problem is something else.

The session started with discovering that the child needed special attention and needed to be a part of the SEN Department, The Special Education Needs cell. He has been shifted, from my class to this other one that caters to his needs. The thing is, he calls me everyday. Without fail. For the one month he was with me, I have no idea what it was, he grew close.

And now when he calls and talks in broken syllables, all he manages to say is ….. “Ma’am, they have taken me away, I want you…you… you…you are are a very good teacher”

This is what he hung up with.

What followed was a series of calls to the school counselor who assured me it will be taken care of.

His mother called especially to express gratitude. What in the world can be more gratifying than having someone who treats your child as his/her own. I can sense that.

As teachers, this is what our days, evening walks…are made up of.

As humans, this is what our humanity surmises.

And as women, this is what we hold within.

The sanity and the groundedness.

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